The barracks stank of sweat, blood, and damp wool. Eli sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at his hands. They were clean now—no blood, no dirt—but he could still feel the warmth of it, the weight of the blade sinking in, the way the man's body had gone slack.
The Empire had made him a killer.
But he wasn't sure if that made him a soldier yet.
"Thinking about it, aren't you?"
Rolf sat across from him, chewing lazily on a strip of dried meat. His thick fingers tore through it like an animal. His face was unreadable.
Eli didn't answer.
Rolf snorted. "First one's always the hardest. After that, it gets easier."
Eli frowned. "That supposed to make me feel better?"
"No," Rolf said, grinning. "It's supposed to make me feel better. You ain't the type to crack, are you?"
Eli exhaled through his nose. "No."
"Good," Rolf muttered. "Because if you do, I'll be the one stuck carrying your sorry ass through battle, and I'd rather not."
Eli smirked despite himself. "How noble."
